THE DRAMA

A Quarterly Review of Dramatic Literature

No. 8 November 1912

THE PLAYS OF HERMAN HEIJERMANS.

To those content with convenient superficialities the plays of a dramatist such as Heijermans are easy of definition. He is dismissed as “a realistic writer,” “a playwright of the naturalistic school,” a follower of Ibsen, or Hauptmann, or Tolstoy, or Zola. Even then, perhaps, the definitions are not exhausted. They spring from the encyclopedia of commonplaces, and are as chaotic as the minds of their authors. There is the adjective “meticulous,” for example,—invaluable to critics. And “morbid,”—equally indispensable, in the form of “morbid psychology.” “Photographic” and “kinematographic” must not be forgotten; the latter an almost brand-new weapon of offence. For the rest, “grey,” “faithful,” “squalid” or “lifelike” will serve their turn, according to the critic’s point of view.

In phrases such as these we hear the echoes of a controversy now a generation old; a controversy dating back to the “free theatres” of the 1890 period in Paris, Berlin and London, the first performances of Ibsen’s “Ghosts,” and the early plays of Hauptmann and Strindberg. Then the issues between Realist and Philistine were sharply defined; the very terms were mutually exclusive. To be modern, to be “free,” was to be an Ibsenite, an apostle of moral indignation, an author or playgoer burning to lay bare social hypocrisies and shams; not merely pour épater le bourgeois, but in order to assert the Great Truths of Actual Life, so recently discovered by the stage. It mattered little that Ibsenites owed their existence to their misunderstanding of Ibsen. He had supplied them with an essential war cry. The old domination of insincere sentiment and false romance in the theatre was indefensible and insupportable. All the enthusiasm of dramatic reformers was perforce directed to the advance of the new realistic movement. Hence arose a battle of epithets between the two camps, with “antiquated,” “conventional,” “sentimental,” “romantic” on the one hand, and “vulgar,” “dreary,” “indecent,” “noisome” on the other.

In Anglo-Saxon countries, naturally enough, the issue was made one of morality rather than artistic method. Ibsen’s views on marriage were suspect, and the whole dramatic movement lay in quarantine. Indeed, realism in literature came to be regarded as an unsettling tendency, emanating from the Continent, and directed against all British institutions from property to religion. The division of opinion may be studied in historical documents such as the criticisms of the London Press on the first English performance of “Hedda Gabler,” and the early prefaces of Bernard Shaw; the one side tilting at realism, the other at romance;—both, alas, the most shifty of windmills where morality is concerned.

The provocative cry of “naturalism,” raised by the newer dramatists and their supporters, was responsible for half the trouble. A naturalist, in good English usage, is taken to be a professor with a butterfly net or an inquirer into the lower forms of pond life; and there is a good deal to be said for the analogy as applied to the author of realistic literature. Pins and chloroform may be his implements of tragedy; his coldly scientific method gives point to the comparison. Undoubtedly the “naturalistic drama” suggested probable inhumanity and possible horror. In any case it clearly offered no hope of an enjoyable evening, and was condemned from the first to be unpopular.

So much for the misconception encouraged by a purely journalistic phrase. Useless to maintain that the older dramatists, from Robertson and Dumas fils to Sardou, held a monopoly of the milk of human kindness, while Ibsen, Hauptmann, Tolstoy and Strindberg wallowed in mere brutal, original sin. The alleged “naturalism” of the latter belied its name. It ranged from revolutionary Utopianism to the creation of most unnatural giants,—stage characters removed from the average of everyday life by their own distinction. Indeed, the differences between the old school and the new were as nothing compared with the intellectual gulf between, say, Strindberg and Tolstoy. Setting out from the common ground of external approximation to life, the dramatists of the period soon diverged upon individual paths. Hauptmann passed from the vivid and revolutionary “Weavers” to the mythology of “Hannele” and the “Sunken Bell,” and the simple domestic drama of “Fuhrmann Henschel” and “Rose Bernd.” Tolstoy became a preacher; Strindberg a Swedenborgian mystic. Of the early playwrights of the French Théâtre Libre, Courteline and Ancey, practised the Comédie rosse, or brutal comedy, until Paris, tired of the uncouth novelty, turned to the more amiable and no less natural work of Capus and Donnay. Brieux devoted himself to the composition of dramatic tracts. Bernard Shaw, after protesting that he “could none other” than dramatize slum landlords and rent collectors in “Widowers’ Houses,” found readier targets for his wit in bishops, professors of Greek and millionaires. Nature, in fact, proved too strong for naturalism. No formula could embrace all the individual playwrights of that stormy time. The most catholic of “schools” could not hold them.

Formulas, however, die hard; and it is still necessary to free Heijermans from the “naturalistic” label so conveniently attached in 1890 to works like Tolstoy’s “Power of Darkness,” Hauptmann’s Vor Sonnenaufgang and Zola’s “Therèse Raquin.” All that his plays have in common with theirs is a faithful observation of life, and more particularly of life among the common people. Moreover, he belongs to a newer generation. He had written several short pieces (notably Ahasuerus and ’n Jodenstreek?) in 1893 and 1894, but “The Ghetto” (1899) was his first important play. This three-act tragedy of the Jewish quarter in a Dutch city has been published in an English adaptation which woefully misrepresents the original, and I should rather refer readers to a German translation (Berlin, Fleische) revised by Heijermans himself. Like most early work, the play did not satisfy its author, and several versions exist.

The story is simple enough. Rafael, the son of an old Jewish merchant, has an intrigue with the Gentile maidservant, Rose. His father, Sachel, lives in an atmosphere of mistrust, hard dealing, thievery; a patriarch with all the immemorial wrongs of the ghetto upon his shoulders, and all the racial instinct to preserve property, family and religion from contact with “strange people.” He is blind, but in the night he has heard the lovers’ footsteps in the house. Rose has lied to him; Rafael, as usual, is neglecting his business for Gentile companions. So the play opens. After some bargaining over the dowry, a marriage is arranged for Rafael with the daughter of another merchant. The authority of the Rabbi is called in, but Rafael refuses. He is a freethinker; in the ghetto, but not of it. “Oh, these little rooms of yours,—these hot, stifling chambers of despair, where no gust of wind penetrates, where the green of the leaves grows yellow, where the breath chokes and the soul withers! No, let me speak, Rabbi Haeser! Now I am the priest; I, who am no Jew and no Christian, who feel God in the sunlight, in the summer fragrance, in the gleam of the water and the flowers upon my mother’s grave … I have pity for you, for your mean existence, for your ghettos and your little false gods—for the true God is yet to come, the God of the new community; the commonwealth without gods, without baseness, without slaves!”

Sachel is blamed for allowing this open rupture to come about. It is better to pay the girl off quietly and have done with her, argue the other Jews. Every woman has her price—and especially every Gentile woman. A hundred gulden—perhaps two hundred if she is obstinate—will settle the matter. The money is offered, but Rose is not to be bought. She has promised to go away with Rafael as his wife. He has gone out, but he will return for her. The family tell her that the money is offered with his consent; that he is tired of her and has left home for good. But she is unmoved. She has learned to mistrust the word of the Jews; she will only believe their sacred oath. At last old Sachel swears by the roll of the commandments that his son will not return. In despair, Rose throws herself into the canal and is drowned. Rafael comes too late to save her. The God of the Jews has taken his revenge.

The play is perhaps a little naïve and crudely imagined, but it has all the essential characteristics of Heijermans’ later work; the intense humanitarian feeling, the burning rhetoric, the frankly partisan denunciation of society. Indeed, it could not be otherwise. In dealing with such a case of bigotry and racial intolerance, it is idle for a playwright to hold the scales with abstract justice. At most he can only humanise the tragedy by humanising the villains of his piece, and showing them driven into cruelty by traditional forces beyond their control. That is the part of the “Ankläger,” the social prophet and Public Prosecutor; and it is the part which Heijermans, above all others, has filled in the newer dramatic movement.

In Het Pantser (“The Coat of Mail”) his subject is the life of a Dutch garrison town. “The Coat of Mail” is militarism; the creed of the governing caste. And the setting is peculiarly apt for the presentation of a social issue. In a small country such as Holland military patriotism may be strong, but it is tempered by the knowledge that the country only exists by the tolerance, or the diplomatic agreement, of more powerful neighbours, and that in case of war it could do no more than sacrifice an army to the invader. To the philosophic workman, then, well read in revolutionary literature from Marx to Kropotkin, the standing army presents itself simply as a capitalist tool, a bulwark of the employing class against trade unionism. The industrial struggle is uncomplicated by sentimentality. Patriotic stampedes to the conservative side are unknown. Social Democracy is strong. Strikes are frequent, and the protection of “blackleg” labourers is in the hands of the garrison. That is the theme of this “romantic military play.”

Mari, a second lieutenant, refuses to serve on strike duty. He is a weak but sincere idealist; his head full of humanitarian enthusiasm, his rooms stocked with anti-militarist pamphlets. He will leave the army rather than order his men to fire on the factory workers. Around him stand the members of the military caste, linked together by tradition and family relationship. His father is a colonel in the same regiment; the father of his fiancée, Martha, is commanding officer. One friend he has: an army doctor named Berens, who has infected himself with cancer serum in attempting to discover a cure for the disease, and passes for a drunkard because he keeps the symptoms in check by alcohol. Here a parallel is drawn between military bravery and the civilian courage of the scientist.

Mari is put under arrest, but the affair is kept secret in order to avoid a scandal. He can only be reinstated by full withdrawal and apology. Martha comes to him and implores him to withdraw. The strike is thought to be over. He can plead the excitement of the moment in excuse, and the matter will be settled honorably. He gives way and apologises. A friendly discussion of the point with his superior officers is interrupted by a volley in the street outside. The troops have fired upon the mob, and the son of the shoemaker over the way has been shot.

Mari sends in his papers; but a newspaper has published the facts of the case, and he is met with the disgrace of immediate dismissal from the army. This does not suit Martha. She must marry a soldier; civilian life with a dismissed lieutenant was not in the bond. So Mari suffers another disillusionment, and the end of the play sees him setting out from home, while the old shoemaker is left to lament for his son.

And the sum total of it all? A warm heart, a weakness for rhetoric, and—a study in vacillation.

In Ora et Labora Heijermans is less rhetorical; rather, one suspects, for lack of a mouthpiece. His peasants bear their fate, if not in silence, with almost inarticulate resignation. They are too hungry to waste words. Moreover, there is no visible enemy to denounce, no Coat of Mail, no racial prejudice, no insatiate capitalism. Winter is the villain of the piece. This is indeed naturalism, in the literal sense; humanity devoured by Nature. Everything is frost-bound: the canal, the soil, the very cattle. The barges are idle. There is no work and no warmth. When the last cow upon the farm dies of disease, its throat is cut so that it can be sold to the butcher. All hopes are centred in the father of the family, who is to sell the carcase in the town; but he spends the money and returns home drunk. As a last resort, his son Eelke enlists in the army for six years’ colonial service, leaving Sytske, the girl he was about to marry. His advance pay buys fuel and food, but the lovers part with a hopeless quarrel, and the old peasants are left wrangling over the money he has brought.

Allerzielen (1906) is a later work. A village pastor finds a woman in a state of collapse upon his threshold. He takes her in, and she gives birth to a child. She is a stranger in the district, Rita by name. The child is sent into the village to be nursed, while the pastor gives up his own room to the mother. She recovers slowly, and meanwhile the peasants set their tongues to work upon the scandal. The child is discovered to be illegitimate. A good village housewife is suckling a bastard. The pastor is housing an outcast, and shows no sign of sending her about her business. The neighbouring clergy are perturbed. Dimly and distantly the Bishop is said to be considering the facts …. Amid alarums and excursions the affair pursues its course. The village passes from astonishment to ribaldry, from ribaldry to stone-throwing. The pastor speaks gently of Christian charity and souls to be saved, but fails to appease his parishioners. They are hot upon the scent in a heresy-hunt. If they could see within the parsonage walls, they would yelp still louder. For Rita proves to be an unblushing hedonist. No prayers for her, when the birth-pangs are once over; no tears, no repentance. She sings gaily in her room while the pastors argue about duty and morals. She feels “heavenly.” She invades the study to enjoy a view of sunlight, clouds and sea. She finds the waves more musical than the wheezing of the church organ. If only the child were with her, her happiness would be complete.

But the child is neglected by its foster mother. It sickens and dies. The pastor is driven from his church by the Bishop, and leaves the broken windows of the parsonage to his successor. Rita and he are both homeless now. And then the child’s father comes,—another hedonist. The child is dead, but Life remains. Its body lies in unconsecrated ground, but the vows of love are renewed at the graveside. The Church can only crush its own slaves. All roads are open to the spirits of the free. The pastor can only offer a hopeless “Farewell” as the two set out upon their way. But Rita calls after, “No,—no! You will come over to us.”

It matters nothing that this gospel of Life has often been preached. Heijermans has caught the spirit of it as well as the letter. His characters say and do nothing particularly original; nothing that would even pass for originality by reason of its manner. He works in vivid contrasts, without a shade of paradox. He figures the opposed forces of Reaction and Revolution in religion, in statecraft, in economics, in all human relationships, with a simplicity of mind which would draw a smile from the forever up-to-date “intellectual.” Reaction is a devilish superstition; Revolution a prophetic angel pointing the way to the promised land. The one is false, the other true. There is no disputing the point, since truth and falsehood are absolute terms. Perhaps the secret is that Heijermans never tires of his own philosophy. He is content to see it firmly planted on the ground; he does not demand that it should walk the tight-rope or turn somersaults as an intellectual exercise. He has accepted a view of life which some call materialistic, and others positivist, or scientific, or humanitarian; but for him it is simply humane,—founded upon social justice and human need.

A philosophy, however, does not make a dramatist. In the plays I have already described Heijermans shows his power of translating the world-struggle of thought into the dramatic clash of will, but it is upon “The Good Hope” (Op Hoop van Zegen) that his reputation chiefly depends. He chooses a great subject; not merely the conflict of shipowners and fishermen in the struggle for existence, but the sea-faring life and the ocean itself. Truly “a sea-piece”; tempestuous, powerful. One can hear the breaking of the waves. From the opening scene, with the old men’s tale of sharks, to the night of the storm in the third act, when the women and children huddle in Kneirtje’s cottage for shelter, the story is always the same. The sea is the symbol of Fate. It takes a father here, a brother there. It seizes Geert and Barend alike; the one going aboard carelessly, the other screaming resistance. Sometimes it plays with its victims on shore, making no sign, leaving months of hope to end in despair. In a more merciful mood it sends children running through the village to cry “’n Ball op! ’n Ball op!” as an overdue ship is signalled from the coastguard tower. And there an echo of the sea-ballad now and again; when raps are heard upon the door at the height of the storm, or a flapping curtain blows out the lamp, or a pallid face is seen at the window ….

In sheer force of theatrical construction “The Good Hope” is still more striking. There are great moments, finely conceived. The play is full of natural rather than violent coincidence. Barend has always feared death by drowning, and he makes his first and last voyage in a leaky trawler. His father sank in a wreck, and it is his mother, unable to maintain the household, who persuades him to go. She fears the disgrace of his refusal after the papers are signed, but he is dragged aboard by the harbour police. His brother Geert sets out proudly enough, singing the Marseillaise and preaching rebellion; but he sinks far away, impotent, unheard, and leaves his sweetheart to bear a fatherless child. Old Cobus can only reflect, “We take the fishes, and God takes us.” That is perhaps the most dramatic thread of all,—the parallel of fate. The struggle for existence on land drives men to the fishing-boats and the Dogger Bank. From the minnows to leviathan, there is no escape. “We take the fishes, and God takes us.” A gale of wind and rain whistles through the play, sweeping the decks of life, tossing men out into the unknown.

Let us turn to the social standpoint. The ship-owner, Bos, is frankly a villain. He knows “The Good Hope” is unseaworthy, but he allows her to sail. True, the warning comes from a drunken ship’s carpenter, but he understands the risks. Business is business. The ship is well insured ….

It is implied, then, that shipowners are unscrupulous scoundrels, and fishermen their unhappy victims. Here is a bias which makes the actual tragedy no more impressive. Good ships, as well as bad, may perish in a storm. Nature is cruel enough without the help of man. The problem of the big fish and the little fish is one of size, not of morality. Even sharks may possibly rejoice in an amiable temperament. It can only be said that Heijermans has here chosen the right motive for his own particular type of drama. His sympathy is with the fishermen. He knows that, humanly speaking, in every conflict between employers and employed, the men are right and the masters wrong. Impossible to redress the balance by individual virtue or kindliness. The masters stand for the exploiting system; for capital, for insurance, for power, for law and order and possession. Their risks are less and their temptations greater. Even from the standpoint of abstract justice, a dishonest employer may fairly be set against a drunken labourer or a gaol-bird fisherman. The one is no less natural than the other. But Heijermans goes beyond all finicking considerations of this sort. He seeks to destroy and rebuild, not to repair or adjust. He avoids mere naturalism; the “conscientious transcription of all the visible and repetition of all the audible” is not for him. And here he is undoubtedly justified, not only by his own experience, but by that of other dramatists. There was no inspiration in the movement towards mere actuality on the stage. It sickened of its own surfeit of “life.” Its accumulated squalor became intolerable. It was choked by its own irrelevance, circumscribed by its own narrowness. For naturalism is like a prison courtyard; it offers only two ways of escape. One is the poet’s upward flight, the other the revolutionist’s battering-ram. Heijermans has chosen his own weapon, and used it well. He has given us “The Good Hope,” not as a mere pitiful study in disillusionment, but as a tragic symbol of human effort in the conquest of despair.

Ashley Dukes.

THE GOOD HOPE.

A Drama of the Sea in Four Acts.

By Herman Heijermans, Jr.

Translated by Harriet Gampert Higgins.

Geerther sons.
Barend

The Drama is laid in a North Sea fishing village.

Copyright 1912 by The Dramatic Publishing Company.

THE GOOD HOPE

A Drama of the Sea in Four Acts.

By Herman Heijermans, Jr.

ACT I.

[Kneirtje’s home, a poor living-room. At the left, two wall bedsteads and a door; to the right, against the wall, a chest of drawers with holy images, vases and photographs. A chimney fireplace nearer front. At the back wall, near right corner, a wicket leading to the cooking shed; at left against the wall a cupboard; a cage with dove; window with flower pots, left of center; in back wall right of center a door overlooking a narrow cobblestone roadway backed by a view of beach with sea in middle distance and horizon. Through the window to the left is seen the red tiled lower corner of roof of a cottage. Time, noon.]

Clementine.

[Sketch book on her knee.] Now, then! Cobus!

Cobus.

[Who poses, awakes with a start, smiles.] He-he-he! I wasn’t asleep—No, no—

Clem.

Head this way—still more—what ails you now? You were sitting so natural. Hand on the knee again.

Cobus.

Tja—when you sit still so long—you get stiff.

Clem.

[Impatiently.] Please! please! stop chewing.

Cob.

I haven’t any chew. Look.

Clem.

Then keep your mouth shut.

Daantje.

[Entering by the cooking shed.] Good day.

Clem.

Good day. Take a walk around the corner.

Daan.

No, Miss—time’s up. [Looking at sketch.] It don’t look like him yet.

Clem.

[Smiling.]

Daan.

[Shifting his spectacles.] You see—if I may take the liberty, Miss—his chin sets different—and his eyes don’t suit me—but his nose—that’s him—and—and—his necktie, that’s mighty natural—I’d swear to that anywhere.

Clem.

Indeed.

Daan.

And the bedstead with the curtains—that’s fine. Now, Miss, don’t you think you could use me?

Clem.

Perhaps. Hand higher—keep your mouth still.

Cob.

That’s easy said—but when y’r used to chewing and ain’t allowed to—then you can’t hold your lips still—what do you say, Daantje?

Daan.

I say time’s up. We eat at four and the matron is strict.

Clem.

That will be necessary with you old fellows.

Daan.

Peh! We’ve a lot to bring in, haven’t we? An Old Man’s Home is a jail—scoldings with your feed—as if y’r a beggar. Coffee this morning like the bottom of the rain barrel—and peas as hard as y’r corns.

Clem.

If I were in your place—keep your mouth still—I’d thank God my old age was provided for.

Cob.

Tja—tja—I don’t want to blaspheme, but—

Daan.

Thank God?—Not me—sailed from my tenth year—voyages—more than you could count—suffered shipwreck—starvation—lost two sons at sea—no—no. I say the matron is a beast—I’d like to slap her jaw.

Clem.

That will do! This is no dive.

Daan.

I know that, but it makes your gorge rise. I wasn’t allowed to go out last week because, begging your pardon, I missed and spat beside the sand box. Now I ask, would you spit beside a box on purpose? An old man’s home is a jail—and when they’ve shut you up, in one of them, decent, they’re rid of you. Wish the sharks had eaten me before I quit sailing.

Cob.

[Giggling.] He! he! he! Man, the sharks wouldn’t eat you—you were too tough for them.

Clem.

Keep your lips still!

Cob.

Tja, tja.

Daan.

Sharks not like me—They’ll swallow a corpse. Peh! I saw old Willem bitten in two till the blood spouted on high. And he was a thin man.

Clem.

Was old Willem eaten by a shark?

Daan.

By one? By six. Quick as he fell overboard they grabbed him. The water was red.

Clem.

Hey! How frightful. And yet—I’d rather like to see a thing like that.

Daan.

Like to see it! We had to.

Clem.

Did he scream?

Daan.

Did he scream!

Cob.

Tja, wouldn’t you if you felt the teeth in your flesh? He—hehe!

[Sound of a fiddle is heard outside. Cobus sways in his chair in time to the tune.]

Clem.

[Hastily closing the sketch book.] There then! [Rises.] Tomorrow you sit still—You hear!

Cob.

[Stretching himself.] All stiff! [Dances, snapping his fingers, his knees wabbling.] Ta de da da—da-da-da.

Daan.

[At the window.] Psst! Nobody home.

Jelle.

[Playing at window outside.] If you please.

Daan.

Nobody home.

Jelle.

I come regular once a week.

Daan.

They have gone to the harbor.

Clem.

[Throws a coin out of the window.] There! [Playing stops.]

Jelle.

Thank you. [Searches for the coin.]

Cob.

Behind that stone, stupid.

Daan.

No; more that way.

Clem.

I threw it out that way. Hey! what a donkey! Is he near-sighted?

Cob.

He’s got only half an eye—and with half an eye you don’t see much. [To Jelle.] Behind you!

Jelle.

I don’t see anything.

Daan.

[Barend appears at door.] Psst! Hey! Barend, you help him——

Clem.

There is a ten-cent piece out there.

Barend.

[Basket of driftwood on his back.] Give it to ’im in his paws then. [Enters.] [Throws down basket with a thud.] Here!

Cob.

Did you hear that impudent boy?

Clem.

Say there, big ape, were you speaking to me?

Bar.

[Shy and embarrassed.] No, Miss. I did not know you were there, I thought——

Cob.

What right had you to think—better be thinking of going to sea again to earn your Mother’s bread.

Bar.

That’s none of your business.

Cob.

Just hear his insolence to me—when he’s too bashful to open his mouth to others. [Taunting.] I’m not afraid—he-he-he!—No, I don’t get the belly ache when I must go to sea—he-he-he!

Daan.

Come along now. It’s struck four.

Clem.

Ten o’clock tomorrow, Cobus.

Daan.

He can’t do it, Miss, we must pull weeds in the court yard.

Cob.

Yes, we must scratch the stones.

Clem.

Tomorrow afternoon, then.

Cob.

Tja! I’ll be here, then. Good day, Miss. [To Barend.] Good day, pudding breeches.

Clem.

[Pinning on her hat.] He teases you, doesn’t he?

Bar.

[Laughing bashfully.] Yes, Miss.

Clem.

Been out searching the beach? [He nods embarrassed.] Found much?

Bar.

No, it was ebb last night—and—and—[Gets stuck.]

Clem.

Are you really afraid to go to sea, silly boy? [He nods, laughing.] They all go.

Bar.

[Dully.] Yes, they all go.

Clem.

A man must not be afraid——

Bar.

No, a man must not be afraid.

Clem.

Well, then?

Bar.

[Timidly.] I’d rather stay on shore.

Clem.

I won’t force you to go—How old are you?

Bar.

Rejected for the army last month.

Clem.

Rejected?

Bar.

For my—for my—I don’t know why, but I was rejected.

Clem.

[Laughing.] That’s lucky—A soldier that’s afraid!

Bar.

[Flaring up quickly.] I’m not afraid on land—let them come at me—I’ll soon stick a knife through their ribs!

Clem.

Fine!

Bar.

[Again lapsing into embarrassment.] Beg pardon, Miss. [The soft tooting of a steamboat whistle is heard.] That’s the Anna—there’s a corpse on board——

Clem.

Another one dead?

Bar.

The flag hung half-mast.

Clem.

Tu-tu-tu-tu—The second this week. First, the Agatha Maria——

Bar.

No, ’twas the Charlotte.

Clem.

Oh, yes! The Agatha was last week—Do they know who? [He shakes his head.] Haven’t you any curiosity?

Bar.

Ach—you get used to it—and none of our family are aboard. [Embarrassed silence.] Father can’t—Hendrick can’t—Josef can’t—you know about them—and—and—Geert—he’s still under arrest.

Clem.

Yes, he’s brought disgrace on all of you.

Bar.

Disgrace—disgrace——

Clem.

When is he free?

Bar.

I don’t know.

Clem.

You don’t know?

Bar.

They gave him six months—but they deduct the time before trial—we don’t know how long that was, so we can’t tell.

Kneirtje.

[Through the window.] Good day, Miss.

Clem.

Good day.

Kneir.

How did the chickens get out? Do look at that rooster! Get out, you salamander! Kischt! Jo! Jo!

Bar.

Let them alone. They’ll go of themselves.

Kneir.

[Entering the room.] That’s an endless devilment, Miss. [To Barend.] Come, you, stick out your paws. Must we have another row with Ari?

Bar.

Then we’ll have a row. [Goes off indifferently, chases away the chickens, outside.]

Kneir.

Then we’ll—such a lazy boy, I wish he’d never been born—Sponger!—Are you going so soon, Miss?

Clem.

I am curious to know what’s happened on the Anna.

Kneir.

Yes—I was on the way there—but it takes so long—and I’ve had my fill of waiting on the pier—if that pier could only talk. Have you finished my brother’s portrait?

Clem.

Tomorrow. I want to make a drawing of Barend also—just as he came in with the basket on his shoulders.

Kneir.

Barend? Well—All the same to me.

Clem.

He doesn’t seem to get much petting around here.

Kneir.

[Annoyed.] Pet him! I should say not! The sooner I get rid of him, the better! [Through the window.] Chase them away! Kischt! Kischt!

Bar.

[Outside.] All that yelling makes the rooster afraid.

Kneir.

Afraid! He takes after you, then! Kischt!

Clem.

Hahaha! Hahaha! Say, he’s enjoying himself there on Ari’s roof.

Jo.

[Coming through the door at left. Brown apron—gold head pieces on the black band around her head.] Good day.

Kneir.

The chickens are out again! The rooster is sitting on Ari’s roof.

Jo.

[Laughing merrily.] Hahaha! He’s not going to lay eggs there!

Kneir.

[Crossly.] Hear her talk! She knows well enough we almost came to blows with Ari because the hens walked in his potato patch.

Jo.

I let them out myself, old cross patch—Truus dug their potatoes yesterday.

Kneir.

Why didn’t you say so then?

Jo.

What am I doing now? Oh, Miss—she would die if she couldn’t grumble; she even keeps it up in her sleep. Last night she swore out loud in her dreams. Hahaha! Never mind! scold all you like; you’re a good old mother just the same. [To Barend, who enters the room.] Ach, you poor thing! Is the rooster setting on the roof? And does he refuse to come down?

Bar.

You quit that now!

Jo.

I’ll wager if you pet the hens he will come down of himself from jealousy. Hahaha! He looks pale with fear.

Clem.

Now, now.

Jo.

Say, Aunt, you should make a baker of him. His little bare feet in the rye flour. Hahaha!

Bar.

You can all——[Goes angrily off at left.]

Jo.

[Calling after him.] The poor little fellow!

Clem.

Now, stop teasing him. Are you digging potatoes?

Jo.

Tja; since four o’clock this morning. Nothing—Aunt—all rotten.

Kneir.

We poor people are surely cursed—rain—rain—the crops had to rot—they couldn’t be saved—and so we go into the winter—the cruel winter—Ach,—Ach,—Ach!

Jo.

There! You’re worrying again. Come, Mother, laugh. Am I ever sad? Geert may return at any moment.

Kneir.

Geert—and what then?

Jo.

What then? Then—then—then, nothing! Cheer up! You don’t add to your potatoes by fretting and grumbling. I have to talk like this all day to keep up her spirits—See, I caught a rabbit!

Clem.

In a trap?

Jo.

As neat as you please. The rascal was living on our poverty—the trap went snap as I was digging. A fat one—forty cents at the least.

Clem.

That came easy—I must go now.

Bos.

[At door.] Hello! Are you going to stay all day—May I come in?

Kneir.

[Friendly manner.] Of course you may, Meneer; come in, Meneer.

Bos.

My paws are dirty, children.

Kneir.

That’s nothing. A little dry sand doesn’t matter—will you sit down?

Bos.

Glad to do so—Yes, Kneir, my girl, we’re getting older every day—Good day, little niece.

Jo.

Good day, Meneer. [Points, laughing, to her hands.] You see——

Bos.

Have you put on gloves for the dance?

Jo.

[Nods saucily.] The hornpipe and the Highland fling, hey?

Bos.

Hahaha! Saucy black eye. [To Clementine.] Come, let me have a look.

Clem.

[Petulantly.] No, you don’t understand it, anyway.

Bos.

Oh, thanks!—You educate a daughter. Have her take drawing lessons, but must not ask to see—come! Don’t be so childish!

Clem.

[With spoiled petulance.] No. When it is finished.

Bos.

Just one look.

Clem.

Hey, Pa, don’t bother me.

Bos.

Another scolding, ha ha ha!

[Barend enters.]

Bar.

[Bashfully.] Good day, Meneer.

Bos.

Well, Barend, you come as if you were called.

Bar.

[Surprised laugh.] I?

Bos.

We need you, my boy.

Bar.

Yes, Meneer.

Bos.

The deuce! How you have grown.

Bar.

Yes, Meneer.

Bos.

You’re quite a man, now—How long have you been out of a job?

Bar.

[Shyly.] Nine months.

Kneir.

That’s a lie—It’s more than a year.

Bar.

No, it isn’t.

Jo.

Well, just count up—November, December—

Bos.

That’ll do, children. No quarreling. Life is too short. Well, Barend, how would the forty-seven suit you?—Eh, what?——

Bar.

[Anxiously.] The forty-seven——

Bos.

The Good Hope——

Clem.

[Surprised.] Are you going to send out the Good Hope?——

Bos.

[Sharply.] You keep out of this! Keep out, I say!

Clem.

And this morning——

Bos.

[Angrily.] Clementine!

Clem.

But Pa——

Bos.

[Angrily stamping his foot.] Will you please go on?

Clem.

[Shrugging her shoulders.] Hey! How contemptible, to get mad—how small—Bonjour! [Exits.]

Kneir.

Good day, Miss.

Bos.

[Smiling.] A cat, eh! Just like her Mama, I have to raise the devil now and then,—hahaha!—or my wife and daughter would run the business—and I would be in the kitchen peeling the potatoes, hahaha! Not but what I’ve done it in my youth.

Kneir.

And don’t I remember——

Bos.

[Smacking his lips.] Potatoes and fresh herring! but what’s past is gone. With a fleet of eight luggers your mind is on other things—[Smiling.] Even if I do like the sight of saucy black eyes—Don’t mind me, I’m not dangerous—there was a time.——Hahaha!

Kneir.

Go on, Meneer. Don’t mind us.

Bos.

Well, our little friend here, what does he say?

Kneir.

Open your mouth, speak!

Bar.

I would rather——

Kneir.

[Angrily.] Rather—rather!

Jo.

Hey! What a stupid!——

Bos.

Children! No quarreling. Boy, you must decide for yourself. Last year at the herring catch the Good Hope made the sum of fourteen hundred guilders in four trips. She is fully equipped, Hengst is skipper—all the sailors but one—and the boys—Hengst spoke of you for oldest boy.

Bar.

[Nervously.] No, no, Meneer——

Kneir.

Ah, the obstinate beast! All my beating won’t drive him aboard.

Jo.

If I were a man——

Bos.

Yes, but you’re not; you’re a pretty girl—ha, ha, ha! We can’t use such sailors. Well, Daddy! And why don’t you want to go? Afraid of seasickness? You’ve already made one trip as middle boy——

Kneir.

And as play boy.

Jo.

He’d rather loaf and beg. Ah! what a big baby.

Bos.

You are foolish, boy. I sailed with your grandfather. Yes, I, too, would rather have sat by Mother’s pap-pot than held eels with my ice cold hands; rather bitten into a slice of bread and butter than bitten off the heads of the bait. And your father——

Bar.

[Hoarsely.] My father was drowned—and brother Hendrick—and Josef—no, I won’t go!

Bos.

[Rising.] Well—if he feels that way—better not force him, Mother Kneirtje; I understand how he feels, my father didn’t die in his bed, either—but if you begin to reason that way the whole fishery goes up the spout.

Kneir.

[Angrily.] It’s enough to——

Bos.

Softly—softly—You don’t catch tipsy herrings with force——

Jo.

[Laughing.] Tipsy herring, I would like to see that!

Bos.

[Laughing.] She doesn’t believe it, Kneir! We know better! Eh, what!

Kneir.

Ach—it’s no joking matter, Meneer, that miserable bad boy talks as if—as if—I had forgotten my husband—and my good Josef—and—and—but I have not. [Ends in low sobbing.]

Jo.

Come, foolish woman! please, Aunty dear!—Good-for-nothing Torment!

Bos.

Don’t cry, Kneir! Tears will not restore the dead to life——

Kneir.

No, Meneer—I know that, Meneer. Next month it will be twelve years since the Clementine went down.

Bos.

Yes, it was the Clementine.

Kneir.

November—’88—He was a monkey of seven then, and yet he pretends to feel more than I do about it.

Bar.

[Nervously.] I didn’t say that. I don’t remember my father, nor my brothers—but—but——

Bos.

Well, then?

Bar.

I want another trade—I don’t want to go to sea—no—no——

Kneir.

Another trade—What else can you do? Can’t even read or write——

Bar.

Is that my fault?

Kneir.

No—it is mine, of course! Three years I had an allowance—the first year three—the second two twenty-five—and the third one dollar—the other nine I had to root around for myself.

Bos.

Have you forgotten me entirely?

Kneir.

I shall always be grateful to you, Meneer. If you and the priest hadn’t given me work and a warm bite now and then to take home—then—then—and that booby even reproaches me!——

Bar.

I don’t reproach—I—I——

Jo.

Out with it! The gentleman is looking for a place to live off his income.

Bar.

Shut up!—I will do anything—dig sand—plant broom—salting down—I’ll be a mason, or a carpenter—or errand boy——

Jo.

Or a burgomaster! Or a policeman! Hahaha! And walk about dark nights to catch thieves—Oh!—Oh!—what a brave man!

Bos.

Little vixen!

Bar.

You make me tired!—Did I complain when the salt ate the flesh off my paws so I couldn’t sleep nights with the pain?

Kneir.

Wants to be a carpenter—the boy is insane—A mason—see the accidents that happen to masons. Each trade has something.

Bos.

Yes, Barendje—There are risks in all trades—my boy. Just think of the miners, the machinists, the stokers—the—the—How often do not I, even now, climb the man rope, or row out to a lugger? Fancies, my boy! You must not give way to them.

Kneir.

And we have no choice. God alone knows what the winter will be. All the potatoes rotted late this fall, Meneer.

Bos.

Yes, all over the district. Well, boy?

Bar.

No, Meneer.

Kneir.

[Angrily.] Get out of my house, then—sponger!

Bar.

[Faintly.] Yes, Mother.

Kneir.

March! Or I’ll——[Threatening.]

Bos.

Come, come. [A pause during which Barend walks timidly away.]

Jo.

If I had a son like that——

Bos.

Better get a lover first——

Jo.

[Brightly.] I’ve already got one!—If I had a son like that I’d bang him right and left! Bah! A man that’s afraid! [Lightly.] A sailor never knows that sooner or later—He never thinks of that—If Geert were that way—there, I know—Aunt, imagine—Geert——

Bos.

Geert?——

Jo.

He’d face the devil—eh, Aunt? Now, I’m going to finish the potatoes. Good bye, Meneer.

Bos.

Say, black eyes—do you laugh all the time?

Jo.

[With burst of laughter.] No, I’m going to cry. [Calls back from the opened door.] Aunt—speak of Geert. [Goes off.]

Bos.

Geert?—Is that your son, who——

Kneir.

Yes, Meneer.

Bos.

Six months?

Kneir.

Yes, Meneer.

Bos.

Insubordination?

Kneir.

Yes, Meneer—Couldn’t keep his hands at home.

Bos.

The stupid blockhead!

Kneir.

I think they must have teased him——

Bos.

That’s nonsense! They don’t tease the marines. A fine state of affairs. Discipline would be thrown overboard to the sharks if sailors could deal out blows every time things didn’t go to suit them.

Kneir.

That’s so, Meneer, but——

Bos.

And is she—smitten with that good-for-nothing?

Kneir.

She’s crazy about him, and well she may be. He’s a handsome lad, takes after his father—and strong—there is his photograph—he still wore the uniform then—first class—now he is——

Bos.

Degraded?——

Kneir.

No, discharged—when he gets out. He’s been to India twice—it is hard—if he comes next week—or in two weeks—or tomorrow, I don’t know when—I’ll have him to feed, too—although—I must say it of him, he won’t let the grass grow under his feet—A giant like him can always find a skipper.

Bos.

A sweet beast—I tell you right now, Kneir, I’d rather not take him—dissatisfied scoundrels are plenty enough these days—All that come from the Navy, I’m damned if it isn’t so—are unruly and I have no use for that kind—Am I not right?

Kneir.

Certainly, Meneer, but my boy——

Bos.

There was Jacob—crooked Jacob, the skipper had to discharge him. He was, God save him, dissatisfied with everything—claimed that I cheated at the count—yes—yes—insane. Now he’s trying it at Maassluis. We don’t stand for any nonsense.

Kneir.

May I send him to the skipper then—or direct to the water bailiff’s office?

Bos.

Yes, but you tell him——

Kneir.

Yes, Meneer.

Bos.

If he comes in time, he can go out on the Good Hope. She’s just off the docks. They are bringing the provisions and casks aboard now. She’ll come back with a full cargo—You know that.

Kneir.

[Glad.] Yes, Meneer.

Bos.

Well—Good bye! [Murmur of voices outside.] What’s that?

Kneir.

People returning from the harbor. There’s a corpse aboard the Anna.

Bos.

Pieterse’s steam trawler—The deuce! Who is it?

Kneir.

I don’t know. I’m going to find out.

[Both go off—the stage remains empty—a vague murmur of voices outside. Fishermen, in conversation, pass the window. Sound of a tolling church bell. Geert sneaks inside through the door at left. Throws down a bundle tied in a red handkerchief. Looks cautiously into the bedsteads, the cooking shed, peers through the window, then muttering he plumps down in a chair by the table, rests his head on his hand, rises again; savagely takes a loaf of bread from the back cupboard, cuts off a hunk. Walks back to chair, chewing, lets the bread fall; wrathfully stares before him. The bell ceases to toll.]

Bar.

[From the cooking shed.] Who’s there?—Geert!—[Entering.]

Geert.

[Curtly.] Yes—it’s me—Well, why don’t you give me a paw.

Bar.

[Shaking hands.] Have you—have you seen Mother yet?

Geert.

[Curtly.] No, where is she——

Bar.

Mother, she—she——

Geert.

What are you staring at?

Bar.

You—you—Have you been sick?

Geert.

Sick? I’m never sick.

Bar.

You look so—so pale——

Geert.

Give me the looking-glass. I’ll be damned. What a mug! [Throws the mirror roughly down.]

Bar.

[Anxiously.] Was it bad in prison?

Geert.

No, fine!—What a question—They feed you on beefsteaks! Is there any gin in the house?

Bar.

No.

Geert.

Go and get some then—if I don’t have a swallow, I’ll keel over.

Bar.

[Embarrassed.] I haven’t any money.

Geert.

I have. [Peers in his pocket, throws a handful of coins on the table.] Earned that in prison—There!——

Bar.

At the “Red” around the corner?

Geert.

I don’t care a damn—so you hurry. [Calling after him.] Is—is Mother well? [A pause.]—and Jo?

Bar.

[At door.] She is digging potatoes.

Geert.

Are they mad at me?

Bar.

Why?

Geert.

Because I—[Savagely.] Don’t stare so, stupid——

Bar.

[Embarrassed.] I can’t get used to your face—it’s so queer.

Geert.

Queer face, eh! I must grow a beard at once!—Say, did they make a devil of a row? [Gruffly.] Well?——

Bar.

I don’t know.

Geert.

Go to the devil! You don’t know anything.

[A pause, Barend slips out. Jo enters, a dead rabbit in her hand.]

Jo.

Jesus! [Lets the rabbit fall.]—Geert! [Rushes to him, throws her arms about his neck, sobbing hysterically.]

Geert.

[In a muffled voice.] Stop it! Stop your damned bawling—stop!

Jo.

[Continuing to sob.] I am so happy—so happy, dear Geert——

Geert.

[Irritated.] Now! Now!

Jo.

I can’t help it. [Sobs harder.]

Geert.

[Pulling her arms from his neck.]—Now then! My head can’t stand such a lot of noise——

Jo.

[Startled.] A lot of noise?

Geert.

[Grumbling.] You don’t understand it of course—six months solitary—in a dirty, stinking cell. [Puts his hand before his eyes as if blinded by the light.] Drop the curtain a bit—This sunshine drives me mad!

Jo.

My God—Geert——

Geert.

Please!—that’s better.

Jo.

Your beard——

Geert.

They didn’t like my beard—The government took that—become ugly, haven’t I?—Look as if I’d lost my wits? Eh?

Jo.

[With hesitating laugh.] You? No—What makes you think that? You don’t show it at all. [Sobs again softly.]

Geert.

Well, damn it! Is that all you have to say. [She laughs hysterically. He points to his temples.] Become grey, eh?

Jo.

No, Geert.

Geert.

You lie. [Kicking away the mirror.] I saw it myself. The beggars; to shut up a sailor in a cage where you can’t walk, where you can’t speak, where you—[Strikes wildly upon the table with his fist.]

Bar.

Here is the gin.

Jo.

The gin?

Bar.

For Geert.

Geert.

Don’t you meddle with this—Where is a glass?—Never mind—[Swallows eagerly.]—That’s a bracer! What time is it?

Bar.

Half past four.

Jo.

Did you take bread? Were you hungry?

Geert.

Yes, no—no, yes. I don’t know. [Puts the bottle again to his lips.]

Jo.

Please, Geert—no more—you can’t stand it.

Geert.

No more? [Swallows.] Ripping!—Hahaha! That’s the best way to tan your stomach. [Swallows.] Ripping! Don’t look so unhappy, girl—I won’t get drunk! Bah! It stinks! Not accustomed to it—Are there any provisions on board?

Jo.

Look—a fat one, eh? Trapped him myself. [Picks up the rabbit.] Not dead an hour.

Geert.

That will do for tomorrow—Here, you, go and lay in a supply—some ham and some meat——

Bar.

Meat, Geert?

Jo.

No—that’s extravagance—If you want to buy meat, keep your money till Sunday.

Geert.

Sunday—Sunday—If you hadn’t eaten anything for six months but rye bread, rats, horse beans—I’m too weak to set one foot before the other. Stop your talk—Hurry up! and—and a piece of cheese—I feel like eating myself into a colic. Hahaha! Shall I take another wee drop?

[Barend goes off.]

Jo.

No.

Geert.

Good, not another drop. Is there any tobacco?

Jo.

God!—I’m glad to see you cheerful again. Yes, there’s some tobacco left—in the jar.

Geert.

That’s good. Fine! Is that my old pipe?

Jo.

I saved it for you.

Geert.

Who did you flirt with, while I sat——

Jo.

[Merrily.] With Uncle Cobus!

Geert.

You women are all trash. [Fills his pipe; smokes.] Haven’t had the taste in my mouth for half a year. This isn’t tobacco; [Exhales.] tastes like hay—Bah! The gin stinks and the pipe stinks.

Jo.

Eat something first——

Geert.

[Laying down the pipe.] Say, do you still sleep with Mother?

Jo.

Yes, next to the pig stye.

Geert.

[Laughing.] And must I sleep under the roof again?

Jo.

You’ll sleep nice and warm up there, dear.

Kneir.

[Outside.] Why is the window curtain down?

Jo.

[Finger on her lips.] Sst! [Goes and stands before Geert.]

Kneir.

[Inside.] What’s going on here? Why is the looking-glass on the floor? Who sits——

Geert.

[Rising.] Well, little old one!

Kneir.

God almighty!

Geert.

No—it’s me—Geert——

Kneir.

[Dropping into a chair.] Oh!—Oh!—My heart beats so!

Geert.

Hahaha! That’s damned good! [Tries to embrace her.]

Kneir.

No—no—not yet—later.

Geert.

Not yet?—Why later?

Kneir.

[Reproachfully.] You—what have you done to make me happy!

Jo.

[Coaxingly.] Never mind that now——

Geert.

I’ve got enough in my head now. If you intend to reproach me?—I shall——

Kneir.

You shall——

Geert.

Pack my bundle!——

Kneir.

And this is his home-coming!

Geert.

Do you expect me to sit on the sinner’s bench? No, thank you.

Kneir.

[Anxious; almost crying.] The whole village talked about you—I couldn’t go on an errand but——

Geert.

[Curtly.] Let them that talk say it to my face. I’m no thief or burglar.

Kneir.

No, but you raised your hand against your superior.

Geert.

[Fiercely.] I should have twisted my fingers in his throat.

Kneir.

Boy—boy; you make us all unhappy.

[Begins to sob.]

Geert.

[Stamping.] Treated like a beast, then I get the devil besides. [Grabs his bundle.] I’m in no mood to stand it. [At the door, hesitates, throws down his bundle.] Now! [Lower voice.] Don’t cry, Mother—I would rather—Damn it!

Jo.

Please—Auntie dear——

Kneir.

Your father lies somewhere in the sea. Never would he have looked at you again—And he also had a great deal to put up with.

Geert.

I’m glad I’m different—not so submissive—It’s a great honor to let them walk over you! I have no fish blood in me—Now then, is it to go on raining?

Kneir.

[Embracing him.] If you would only repent.

Geert.

[Flaring up.] I’d knock the teeth out of his jaw tomorrow.

Kneir.

How did it happen?

Jo.

Hey! Yes—tell us all about it. Come, now, sit down peaceably.

Geert.

I’ve sat long enough, hahaha!—Let me walk to get the hang of it. [Lighting his pipe again.] Bah!

Jo.

Stop smoking then, donkey!

Geert.

Now I’ll—But for you it would never have happened——

Jo.

[Laughing.] But for me?—that’s a good one!

Geert.

I warned you against him.

Jo.

Against who—What are you talking about?

Geert.

That cad—Don’t you remember dancing with him at the tavern van de Rooie?

Jo.

I?—Danced?——

Geert.

The night before we sailed.

Jo.

With that cross-eyed quartermaster?—I don’t understand a word of it—was it with him?—And you yourself wanted me to——

Geert.

You can’t refuse a superior—On board ship he had stories. I overheard him tell the skipper that he——

Jo.

[Angrily.] What?

Geert.

That he—never mind what—He spoke of you as if you were any sailor’s girl.

Jo.

I!—The low down——

Geert.

When he came into the hold after the dog watch, I hammered him on the jaw with a marlin spike. Five minutes later I sat in irons. Kept in them six days—[Sarcastically.] the provost was full; then two weeks provost; six months solitary; and suspended from the navy for ten years; that, damn me, is the most—I’d chop off my two hands to get back in; to be nigger-driven again; cursed as a beggar again; ruled as a slave again——

Kneir.

Geert—Geert—Don’t speak such words. In the Bible it stands written——

Geert.

[Grimly.] Stands written—If there was only something written for us——

Kneir.

Shame on you——

Jo.

Well, wasn’t he in the right?

Kneir.

If he had gone politely to the Commander——

Geert.

Hahaha! You should have been a sailor, Mother—Hahaha! Politely? They were too glad of the chance to clip and shear me. While I was in the provost they found newspapers in my bag I was not allowed to read—and pamphlets I was not allowed to read—that shut the door—otherwise they would have given me only third class——

Kneir.

Newspapers you were not allowed to read? Then why did you read them?

Geert.

Why—simple soul—Ach!—when I look at your submissive face I see no way to tell why—Why do men desert?—Why, ten days before this happened to me, did Peter the stoker cut off his two fingers?—Just for a joke? No, on purpose! I can’t blame you people—you knew no better—and I admired the uniform—But now that I’ve got some brains I would like to warn every boy that binds himself for fourteen years to murder.

Kneir.

To murder? Boy, don’t say such dreadful things—you are excited——

Geert.

Excited? No—not at all—worn out, in fact—in Atjeh I fought with the rest—stuck my bayonet into the body of a poor devil till the blood spurted into my eyes—For that they gave me the Atjeh medal. I have it still in my bundle. Hand it here. [Jo picks up the bundle; Barend looks on.] Where is the thing? [Jerks the medal from his jacket, throws it out of the window.] Away! you have dangled on my breast long enough!

Kneir.

Geert! Geert! Who has made you like this! I no longer know you——

Geert.

Who—who took an innocent boy, that couldn’t count ten, and kidnaped him for fourteen years? Who drilled and trained him for a dog’s life? Who put him in irons when he defended his girl? Irons—you should have seen me walking in them, groaning like an animal. Near me walked another animal with irons on his leg, because of an insolent word to an officer of the watch. Six days with the damned irons on your claws and no power to break them. Six days lower than a beast.

Jo.

Don’t talk about it any more, you are still so tired——

Geert.

[Wrapped in the grimness of his story.] Then the provost, that stinking, dark cage; your pig stye is a palace to it. A cage with no windows—no air—a cage where you can’t stand or lie down. A cage where your bread and water is flung to you with a “there, dog, eat!” There was a big storm in those days,—two sloops were battered to pieces;—when you expected to go to the bottom any moment. Never again to see anyone belongin’ to me—neither you—nor you—nor you. To go down in that dark, stinking hole with no one to talk to—no comrade’s hand!—No, no, let me talk—it lightens my chest! Another drop. [Drinks quickly.] From the provost to the court martial. A fellow has lots to bring in there. Your mouth shut. Sit up; mouth shut some more. Gold epaulettes sitting in judgment on the trash God has kicked into the world to serve, to salute, to——

Kneir.

Boy—boy——

Geert.

Six months—six months in a cell for reformation. To be reformed by eating food you could not swallow;—rye bread, barley, pea soup, rats! Three months I pasted paper bags, and when I saw the chance I ate the sour paste from hunger. Three months I sorted peas; you’ll not believe it, but may I never look on the sea again if I lie. At night, over my gas light, I would cook the peas I could nip in my slop pail. When the handle became too hot to hold any longer, I ate them half boiled—to fill my stomach. That’s to reform you—reform you—for losing your temper and licking a blackguard that called your girl a vile name, and reading newspapers you were not allowed to read.

Kneir.

[Anxiously.] That was unjust.

Geert.

Unjust! How dare you say it! Fresh from the sea—in a cell—no wind and no water, and no air—one small high window with grating like a partridge cage. The foul smell and the nights—the damned nights, when you couldn’t sleep. When you sprang up and walked, like an insane man, back and forth—back and forth—four measured paces. The nights when you sat and prayed not to go insane—and cursed everything, everything, everything! [Drops his head upon his hands.]

Jo.

[After a long pause goes to him and throws her arms about his neck. Kneirtje weeps, Barend stands dazed.] Geert!

Geert.

Now! Don’t let us—[Forcibly controlling his tears.] A light! [Smokes.] Now, Mother! [Goes to the window—says to Barend.] Lay out the good things—[Draws up the curtain.] I’ll be damned! if the rooster isn’t sitting on the roof again, ha, ha, ha! will you believe it? I would like to sail at once—two days on the Sea! the Sea! the Sea!—and I’m my old self again. What?—Why is Truus crying as she walks by? Truus! [Calling.]

Kneir.

Ssst!—Don’t call after her. The Anna has just come in without her husband. [A few sad-looking, low-speaking women walk past the window.] Poor thing! Six children——

Geert.

Is Ari—[She nods.] That’s damned sad! [Drops the window curtain, stands in somber thought.]

CURTAIN.

ACT II.

[Same Room. Time—Early Afternoon.]

Jo.

[By the table.] Hey!

Marietje.

[Entering.] They haven’t come yet?

Simon.

No, they haven’t come yet. [Starting to go.]

Jo.

Are you running away again?

Simon.

That is to say——

Marietje.

Good gracious, father, do stay awhile.

Simon.

Yes—I won’t go far—I must——

Marietje.

You must nothing——

Simon.

Well, Salamander, am I a child? I must—I must——[Abruptly off.]

Marietje.

Stop it if you can. It begins early in the morning.

Jo.

Is he bad again?

Marietje.

You should have seen him day before yesterday—half the village at his heels. Ach! Ach! When Mother was living he didn’t dare. She used to slap his face for him when he smelled of gin—just let me try it.

Jo.

[Bursting into a laugh.] You say that as though—ha ha ha! Mees ought to hear that.

Marietje.

I never have seen Mees drinking—and father very seldom formerly. Ah well—I can’t put a cork in his mouth, nor lead him around by a rope. [Looks through the window.] Gone, of course—to the Rooie. Horrid old drunkard. How old is Kneirtje today?

Jo.

Sixty-one. Young for her years, isn’t she, eh? Sit down and tell me [Merrily.] when are you going to be married?

Marietje.

That depends on the length of the voyage. You know we would like to marry at once [Smiles, hesitates.] because—because——Well, you understand. But Mees had to send for his papers first—that takes two weeks—by that time he is far out at sea; now five weeks—five little weeks will pass quickly enough.

Jo.

[Joyfully confidential.] We shall be married in December.

Marietje.

That’s about the same——Are you two!——Now?——I told you everything——

[Jo shrugs her shoulders and laughs.]

Kneir.

[Entering.] Laughing as usual.

Marietje.

[Kissing her.] May you live to be a hundred——

Kneir.

God forbid!—a hundred years. I haven’t the money for that! [Opening a bag.] You may try one—you, too—gingerbread nuts—no, not two, you, with the grab-all fingers! For each of the boys a half pound gingerbread nuts—and a half pound chewing tobacco—and a package of cigars. Do you know what I’m going to give Barend since he has become so brave—look——

Jo.

Now—you should give those to Geert——

Kneir.

No, I’m so pleased with the lad that he has made up his mind I want to reward him.

Marietje.

Did you buy them?

Kneir.

No, indeed! These are ever so old, they are earrings. My husband wore them Sundays, when he was at home.

Marietje.

There are little ships on them—masts—and sails—I wish I had them for a brooch.

Jo.

Why give them to that coward? That’s not right.

Marietje.

You had a time getting him to sign—Eh!

Kneir.

Yes—yes. But he was willing to go with his brother—and now take it home to yourself—a boy that is not strong—not very strong—rejected for the army, and a boy who heard a lot about his father and Josef.

Jo.

I just can’t stand that! First you curse and scold at him, and now nothing is too good.

Kneir.

Even so, no matter what has been. In an hour he will be gone, and you must never part in anger. Have a sweet dram, Marietje. We have fresh wafers and ginger cakes all laid in for my birthday—set it all ready, Jo. Saart is coming soon, and the boys may take a dram, too.

Cobus.

[Through the window. Daantje with him.]

A sweet young Miss

And a glass of Anis—

I shall surely come in for this.

Kneir.

Throw your chew away before you come in.

Cob.

Indeed I’ll not! [Hides it in his red handkerchief.] No—now—you know what I want to say.

Daan.

Same here. Same here.

Jo.

I don’t need to ask if——[Pours the dram.]

Cob.

No—no—go ahead—just a little more.

Jo.

There!—now it is running over.

Cob.

No matter, I shan’t spill a drop. [Bends trembling to the table. Lips to the glass, sucks up the liquor.] He, he, he!

Daan.

Ginger cake? If you please. [Yawns.]

Marietje.

[Imitating his yawn.] Ah! Thanks!

Daan.

When you have my years!—Hardly slept a wink last night—and no nap this afternoon.

Jo.

Creep into the bedstead.

Cob.

That’s what he would like to do——

Marietje.

Better take a hot bottle, Daan!

Cob.

Now, if I had my choice——

Kneir.

Hold your tongue—Story teller! The Matron at the Home has to help dress him. And yet he——

Jo.

Ha, ha, ha! Oh, Uncle Cobus!

Marietje.

Oh! Oh! Hahaha!

Cob.

Tja! the Englishman says: “The old man misses the kisses, and the young man kisses the misses.” Do you know what that means?

Jo.

Yes, that means, “Woman, take your cat inside, its beginning to rain.” Hahaha! Hahaha!

Saart.

[Through door at left.] Good day! Congratulations everybody!

Cob.

Come in.

Saart.

Good day, Daantje; day, Cobus; and day, Marietje; and day, Jo. No, I’ll not sit down.

Kneir.

A dram——

Saart.

No, I’ll not sit down. My kettle is on the fire.

Jo.

Come now!

Saart.

No, I’m not going to do it—my door is ajar—and the cat may tip over the oil stove. No, just give it to me this way—so—so—many happy returns, and may your boys—Where are the boys?

Kneir.

Geert has gone to say good bye, and Barend has gone with Mees to take the mattresses and chests in the yawl. They’ll soon be here, for they must be on board by three o’clock.

Saart.

Hey, this burns my heart out. [Refers to the anisette.] Were you at Leen’s yesterday?

Kneir.

No, couldn’t go.

Saart.

There was a lot of everything and more too. The bride was full,—three glasses “roses without thorns,” two of “perfect love,” and surely four glasses of “love in a mist.” Well! Where she stowed it all I don’t know.

Cob.

Give me the old fashioned dram, brandy and syrup—eh! Daantje?

Daantje.

[Startled.] What?

Kneir.

He’s come here to sleep—you look as if you hadn’t been to bed at all.

Cob.

In his bed—he, he, he!

Daan.

[Crossly.] Come, no jokes.

Cob.

Hehehe! [Takes out his handkerchief.]

Kneir.

No, I say, don’t take out your chew.

Saart.

Old snooper!